


Engraved

by sheol



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Drama & Romance, Heart of Thorns, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, canach-centric, living story 2, living story 3, path of fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheol/pseuds/sheol
Summary: “Is it true Sylvari do not receive the first words of their soulmate?” her finger dips into the grooves and Canach hisses.“Don’t do that.” he mutters sullenly, annoyed if used to the feeling of his mark being violated. “Sylvari get names.”He can see the Countess smile as she lays her head on his chest.“You poor thing.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> instant regret

He’s despised the concept of soulmates ever since he awoke from his sleep.

Perhaps it was because the thought that someone could be bound to another without their say rubbed him the wrong way. How the universe had pre decided their paths and expected them to follow along like obedient fern hounds.

Perhaps it was because a mark of his own was etched deep into his skin, branding him claimed.

He would be damned if he let someone other than himself decide his fate.

 

\---

 

Humans celebrated their soul bonds. Unlike his own harsh carvings, theirs were graceful ink flowing across soft skin. Flawless. Easy to read. No chips in the wood, no frayed edges. It only made him hate his own more.

Back then none of his siblings had one, though time would show that soul bonds were a true rarity among Sylvari. It made him a curiosity. The first Sylvari with a soulmate.

The Asura had a field day with him once they realized.

 

On the bad days his mark still aches from the abuse of their tools that they prodded it with. There are cuts on the inside from where they stole samples, cuts that never truly healed. It taught him the harsh lesson of keeping his mark covered, though the damage was already done. Whereas before the slightest touch was enough for send him covering in pain, the sensation soon became weak enough that he could take their prodding without more than a hiss.

Those of his siblings stuck in the same cell worried over him like hens. He could only growl at them to keep their distance when the pain was at its worst. As soon as their older siblings came to their rescue he disappeared, getting as far away from anyone who knew about him and his mark.

 

Though however far he goes, the topic of soulmates never leaves him alone.

It seems about half the human population of Tyria carries the dreaded mark, making it a celebrated phenomenon. Some Norn have one as well, beautifully inked letters that they build their tattoos around, but it isn’t nearly as big of a deal as it is in human culture.

In a odd way he almost enjoys human company more, because no one is baffled when they learn about his mark. At most they congratulate him, in a sort of half-genuine way you praise someone doing the bare minimum. Though he enjoys the lack of fuss, their comments make him bristle. The more perceptive types, those that notice his struggle, point him towards books. Aimed at humans to help them figure out the mystery of soulmates they would serve him just as well. At first he refuses. It’d feel too much like defeat, he tells himself, to acknowledge the cursed word. He busies himself with finding his feet in the world, noticing he takes maybe too much enjoyment in spilling blood. Soon enough even that isn’t enough to keep him distracted from his curiosity, so he gives in.

He researches, despite his disgust. Human books say the mark is the first words his soulmate will say to him. The single word stands out against his skin, and he dreads the thought of it being in another language because it is no word he is familiar with.

 

Later, when a second and third Sylvari wake from their slumber with letters carved into their bark, does he learn that Sylvari do not get words. Sylvari get names.

 

\---

 

One day he wakes up with a pain in his knee that stings just enough to be an annoyance. He swears and makes a fuss, however when he goes to patch it up there’s nothing there. He pokes the skin and it’s as healthy as ever. Confused he figures it’s some old wound acting up.

The next time it happens his hands are scraped raw, like he’s used them to stop a fall against gravel. Even so his skin is unharmed and there are no old wounds on his hands that could cause a fuss like this. He finds a healer and shows them his hands, demanding to know what’s wrong with him.

The healer is human, and after taking a look at his hands she offers him a gentle smile and explains that it’s merely the connection.

“What connection?” He asks dumbly and she laughs.

“The connection to your soulmate.”

When he still can’t seem to understand she sits him down and explains. He learns that a soul bond allows emotions and sensations to pass between the bonded. She explains how it’s merely a weak ghost of the original feeling, which is why his hands aren’t completely unusable. She teaches him to place his hand on the mark to strengthen the connection, though he is quick to remove it when the sting in his hands become stronger. She tells him why the pain is there, that it lessens the pain of his soulmate by giving him a fraction of it.

 

He learns many things from her, and she guides him through his struggle. The more he learns of the mark the more he despises it. She makes it sound like his soul is bared open for whoever holds the matching mark, and it makes his bristles stand on end to think someone could just have a look and see all his secrets.

Later comes sullen acceptance, when he realizes there’s nothing he can do short of killing his soulmate to break the connection. The thought isn’t helped by the fact that he is fairly certain that his soulmate is only a child. If the location of the wounds are anything to go by they will be the product of childlike clumsiness. It makes him uncomfortable beyond words, even though technically he is only a few years old himself. Sylvari emerge into fully developed adulthood.

When he asks the healer for guidance she looks conflicted, before apparently deciding his soulmate must be a Sylvari like himself. She pats him on the back and tells him to allow the bond to mature. He is fairly certain it’s a warning not to do anything dubious. He tries not to be insulted.

 

He’ll be the first to admit his soulmate might not be Sylvari. The name doesn’t fit, nor do any of the saplings carry his name. Some days he wishfully thinks his match might’ve simply not awoken yet, other days, when he traces the outline of the name, he knows that isn’t the case. No Sylvari still dreaming would get scrapes on their knees and gravel cuts on their hands. He’s down to either human or Norn, and he will be damned if he lets it be one of those giants. The height difference bothers him enough with his siblings.

Even so he promises the healer to let his bond grow at its own pace and takes his leave. He makes good on it too, much too busy either way to pay attention to it. When some part of him stings because of a cut he never got he learns to ignore it and carry on as usual. When he notices sparks of emotion that have no place in his head _(affection, love, childlike curiosity)_ he knows to catch them before they take root and change his own mood.

 

Years pass and scrapes turn into bruises, the kind you get from sparring. He feels oddly proud of his other half when he realizes. It leaves him exhausted, between mercenary work and the aching muscles of his arms which he can thank his soulmate for, but it’s exhaustion he’ll bear knowing his soulmate will not be some weak and helpless creature in need of protection.

When he reaches his fourteenth winter he allows his hand to trace the mark with the intention of testing the bond. The connection is ever present, but it seems to gain attention when he fusses over it. Always there, however faint, a presence not his own. When his fingers dip into the grooves _(he is surprised to find it doesn’t hurt)_ he feels a overwhelming sense of calm. It blankets him like snow over a forest, unyielding like the trees.

He learns a lot from his other half through the bond once he starts to test its strength. The forest stays calm, even as storms rip through the foliage. Canach is certain they’re the gentle kind, the type who picks up stray cats and feeds them. Offhandedly he wonders if he will be one of those stray cats.

 

He also learns to read the bond. It’s hard at first, the emotions drifting past but a mere shadow of the original. But when he learns to sift through the constant stream that is the presence of his soulmate it gets easier.

Easy enough, that when he one day feels the weight of mercenary gold paid into his hand and smirks, he can feel the bond smirk right back.

It startles him so bad he nearly drops the pouch of gold in haste to slam his mind shut in a way he didn’t even know himself capable of.

The presence still remains, though numbed to a point it might as well not.

 

Hours later, when he figures out how to lift the metaphorical lock on his thoughts, he feels overwhelmed with shame. The hurt that trickles through from the other side tastes bitter and he is fairly certain he is getting the cold shoulder from someone he’s never even met.

So he spends his evening trying to fix it, clumsily trying to convey emotions because he never bothered to learn how. He feels ridiculous doing it, but eventually the sour hurt is replaced by what he can only describe as forgiveness, so it’s worth it.

 

\---

 

He grows older, and so does his soulmate. He is nearing his twenties when one day a pain so vicious rakes across his body that he nearly blacks out. It takes him days to recover, during which he desperately wonders what happened. For the first time he feels the need to seek out his soulmate, because if that was only a fraction of their pain he got then something bad must’ve happened. His right arm and chest throb for months because of it.

The urge to find them taper off eventually as nothing too worrying happens but the shock of it forces him to realize an uncomfortable truth. His soulmate isn’t impervious from harm.

 

\---

 

Rumors of an elder dragon rising worries him. Not because he believes he’ll ever have to encounter one. He’s clever enough to stay out of trouble. He worries, because by now he’s not so sure his soulmate is clever enough to do the same.

His body hurts in places more often than not, gentle pains which are very much not his. Whatever his soulmate is doing is not forgiving.

When the Pact assembles he has a nagging fear that he’d find them in their ranks.

Instead of following the tug of his bond he steers wide and clear from the Pact. If his gut is correct when it tells him his soulmate is human, he’d rather not find them only for Zhaitan to swallow them whole. His heart argues, but he’s never listened to it before and he’s not about to begin now.

 

\---

 

He is twenty-four when the consortium hires him to map and explore Southsun Cove. It seemed like an easy job at first, well paid for what could be considered a trek through a tropical island. He only regrets it a little when the karka turn aggressive and chase them to Lion’s Arch and even then it’s only because he’s blamed for their invasion.

He flees the first moment he can, only to return later to settle the score with Noll. He fights as dirty as he always has, leaving a trail so obvious he is amazed by how long it takes the Lionguard to find him.

 

\---

 

The Lionguard manage to track him down eventually, behind them trailing the famous Pact commander. He sneers at them, enjoying the sight as they narrowly escape his mines, shrapnel raining in their direction. Neither of them say anything. The commander is here to try and take him down, Canach is not one to give up and submit.

 

He’s half a mind to laugh at their choice of weapon when they draw their bow and a handful of arrows. Mindful of his mines and explosives he charges at them, throwing off their aim by closing the distance faster than they can release their arrows. Two arrows crack and break against the metal of his shield, another fizzes past as he evades out of its way.

The swing of his sword is only halted by the curve of their longbow, a terrible weapon for close quarter combat, the material chipping away as he pulls the blade free and knocks them back with his shield.

He sends them flying into a mine that beeps shrilly before detonating. They manage to evade it, but only barely. The heat of the explosion catches them in the shins, no doubt making the leather smoldering hot. Canach grins triumphantly before moving to dash after them, only for a loud screech and sharp claws flailing against his eyes forcing him to flinch away. An arrow catches him in the shoulder _(the unmarked one, thank the pale tree)_ but is stopped before it can burrow past his armor. When the bird finally lets up and he can see the commander is gone, only the sound of splashing water telling him that they haven’t taken the cowards way out.

There’s another volley of rapid arrows but his armor is too thick and his shield too strong for any of them to cause harm. He laughs condescendingly and makes a dash for the direction they flew from, ducking to the side as another arrow whistles past. The commander stands there, stock still and pulling the string of his longbow mounting another arrow ready for flight and Canach lifts his shield in anticipation.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air, joined by another before the arrow thunks into the soft of his shield. He lowers his shield to take a swing, but they’re already moving out of the way. Instead the large shadow of their bird approach him in a dive and something drops from its claws.

It takes him a split second too long to realize it’s one of his own bombs.

It explodes against him, Canach only having enough time to react and shield his face before it goes off. The shrapnel buries itself through his armor, weakened by the heat.

 

It hurts like a bitch and when he hears the triumphant yell from the commander he knows that they’ve found a way past his defences.

 

\---

 

“It doesn’t have to go like this!” they finally yell at him, nocking another arrow and letting it fly. It joins four others already nesting on the soft parts of his shield. A mere distraction for the raven who dive bombs, dropping one of his own shrapnel explosives his way. He barely manages to evade it, fully aware that he won't be able to keep going if he’s hit again. “The Lionguard are here to help! They’ve got it handled.”

Canach grins manically, even as sap runs down his arms and make his hands slippery. He’d thought the commander a second rate lapdog who’d run errands for anyone who whistled, but he’s glad to be proven wrong for once. Even though knowing he’s as good as defeated he can’t bring himself to regret it. He can’t figure out why, only that he’s satisfied knowing that even if he goes down, the good commander will have their own scars to remember the battle by.

“Some things just require a more mercenary touch.” he shouts back at them, ducking as an arrow is nocked. The arrow flies wide, missing him by several paces. It takes him a moment to register the miss, and when he looks over to see what caused it he only has a moment to register the pure expression of shock on their face before another one of his bombs come flying out the air and explode against his side. Proving too much for him to endure he goes down, sword and shield clattering to the ground.

Time slows, or speeds up, he really has no true concept of it against the deafening ring in his ears, but it abates in time for Kiel to dash into the hideout.

“Daud!” she calls and for a moment it doesn’t register in his head. Instead it hits him like the first drops of rainfall before cascading down. Canach freezes and feels his heart throb painfully. A sudden urge to throw up what little he ate that morning makes his stomach turn. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the commander turn his head, like any person would in response to their name. “Is he-”

“Yes.” They responds. Emotions flick through his head like thunder, shock, anger, disappointment. It’s easy to figure they aren’t his. He hadn’t even noticed the emotions pass through his bond, so taken up by the battle was he. Now he only has mere seconds to register them before the bond clamps shut, leaving him gasping against the sudden quiet. He looks at the man, _truly_ looks. Golden eyes stare back at him with barely concealed fury. It’s them. His _soulmate._ “He’s harmless now.”

 

That should leave him seething in anger because he is anything but harmless, but he can’t. His other half has never shut him out, leaving him without that blanket of comfort it’s always provided. Then again, Canach figures they’ve never needed to before. His mark throbs painfully, even though there’s nothing touching it. He watches the commanders hand fly up to their shoulder, hand tracing what must be their own mark.

Over twenty years since he emerged, that damned name engraved into his shoulder. Twenty years, where he went from hating the brand to coming to terms with it to looking forward to meeting its namesake.

 

And now that he has?

His soulmate hates him.

What little seeps through the cracks is proof of it.

 

“Wait-” he calls, but they turn around. They’re gone before he can even begin to finish the sentence in his mind. His soul _aches_ like nothing he’s felt before, the reality of the rejection leaving his heart shattered in pieces. This is not what the books described it to be like. The books described the encounter to be something wonderful, promised that the realization would be even greater. He wants to surge up and follow, but the battle left him too wounded.

“You got away clean. Why’d you risk coming back just to stir things up again?” Kiel asks as a Charr drags him up from the ground and immobilizes him. He vaguely registers answering, mouth running on by itself like it always does, but all he can do is wish that he hadn’t returned.

 

For once, he regrets.

 

\---

 

The bond stays clamped shut. The cold anger eventually disappears, but it leaves his senses empty because nothing else is strong enough to trickle through the lock. He doesn't dare touch his mark. It burns against his shoulder, a constant reminder.

Months later he is dragged out the cell to assist with fighting off Scarlet. He sees them then, assisting wounded and helping stragglers escape. They never look back at him. Maybe they don’t notice, though some days he feels a flicker of anger through the bond. It’s cold as steel and awfully familiar.

He keeps his distance from them after that. Lion’s Arch is destroyed and he doesn’t see them again afterwards.

 

\---

 

When he thinks he can’t take the inactivity of staring at the walls of his cell anymore a human woman saunters in with a paper in hand and a smile on her lips.

Countess Anise drives him up the wall in frustration on a good day, but he is free from his cell _(under conditions)_ and distracted from his thoughts.

She works him until he aches and then some. The Shining Blade is a surprise, but provides him with ample spying work to do so he is content. Anything that distracts him is welcomed.

She teases him mercilessly. It helps him stay focused even when her remarks bite where it hurts, things like his skill in battle and how he drinks too much. He tries to keep secrets to the best of his abilities, but she will have none of it. Anise pushes and pulls until he is stripped bare of his defenses. Literally, sometimes.

When she finds out about his soul bond mark she is delighted, tracing the edges of it with wonder. It makes him shiver uncomfortably, but he's had worse.

“ _Daud_.” She says. “Is it true Sylvari do not receive the first words of their soulmate?” her finger dips into the grooves and he hisses. She quickly withdraws it.

“Don’t do that.” he mutters sullenly, annoyed if used to the feeling of his mark being violated. He turns his head away and stares into a large mirror which reflect the Countess’ bed as well as them. “Sylvari get names.”

He can see the Countess smile in the mirror as she lays her head on his chest.

“You poor thing.”

 

It’s enough to remind him of the silence that haunts him. His eyes sting but never water.

 

\---

 

The lock lifts one day and for the first time in a year the space is flooded with emotion. It leaves him so dizzy he has to steady himself against a wall or risk collapsing. Anise stares at him curiously as he sinks to the floor, one hand going straight for his mark. It fumbles against his armour but with a bit if a struggle he manages to put his hand against the dips of the letters.

The forest is back and he can feel the sun sifting through the trees. He expects bitter anger to follow, but all that comes is gentle confusion and amusement. Something is wrong and he can’t put his finger on it, but then and there all he can think about is how complete he feels again.

Anise mercifully leaves him to his thoughts. Canach loses himself wandering the long familiar woods of his soulmates emotions for hours, unable to shake the feeling the universe has granted him a favor he doesn’t deserve.

 

 ---

 

He expects the lock to return any day. For his soulmates thoughts to turn cold. But they never do. He figures he’s forgiven.

 

\---

 

Anise throws a party for the nobles of Divinity’s Reach one day and orders him to come along. He does so reluctantly, half a mind to skip out and sleep off his hangover. Eventually he concedes, forgoing his helmet to not look absolutely brutish.

The cream of Divinity's Reach pour in and out all day and he feels disgustingly out of place in his armour and general Sylvari-ness. Still, the drinks are plentiful and free, so he amuses himself by scaring the waiters and grabbing the entire plateful of Tyrian red wine before downing it all in one go. He is fairly certain he can feel his other half chiding him for it, the good commander probably doesn’t approve of him scaring the poor waiters, but Canach just lets a cheeky smile flash through the connection.

He hears them being announced before he sees them. Not that he notices immediately, because he is fairly certain that _Caesar_ is not their real name. The name etched into him should prove it. He does however notice, halfway through chugging down a large glass of whisky, when they sneak up behind him and loom over his shoulder.

“Countess Anise?” The commander enquiries. “I need to speak to you.”

“Mmm?” The Countess responds dreamily, smiling at nothing in particular. Canach chokes and sputters into his drink, mind reeling. He sees the commanders brow furrow in thought, and a moment later a reassuring blanket of calm wraps around him. A smile plays along their lips, affectionate and fond. He can tell that private smile is meant for him.

“Careful with that whisky.” Daud absently says to him. There’s no recognition in his eyes. “It’s a hell of a burn going down.” They cock their head, apparently listening to something Canach can’t hear. Then they’re gone, Kasmeer Meade trailing behind them as they dip out of sight into an alleyway away from the party.

With growing dread and whisky burning his throat raw, Canach comes to a realization. He was never forgiven.

 

\---

 

“What happened to him?” He asks that night, hunched over in a chair in Anise's bedchamber. She rolls over, silken sheets trailing her figure when she turns to look at him. For a moment he thinks she’ll wander over and sit down on his lap to pat his head in that condescending way of hers. She only sits up though, closing the book she was reading. He can’t bear to look where the sheets have cascaded down around her, revealing inked words that follow the curve beneath the soft swell of her breast.

“He was caught in the blast when the Breachmaker exploded. They found him unconscious, bleeding from a wound to the head. He didn’t wake up for days and when he did he’d lost all memory of the past year.”

He stares grimly at his hands, knitted together so they don't wander. “So he doesn’t remember me.” He says thinly. Anise regards him with a look that says nothing. “He doesn’t remember that I’m-”

“Do you want him to?” She interrupts him. He slumps further. His hands hurt with how tightly he holds them.

“He hates me.”

“Not anymore. He can’t remember what you did.” The way she says it, it’s not meant as a comfort.

“Hated, then.” He snaps back, glaring into her eyes. She merely smiles.

“It is up to you what happens next. You still have his name, but his words have been said. If you wish it then he’ll never know.”

“Memories can return, Countess.” He says but she only shakes her head.

“Not these ones.”

 

With that she turns back to her book, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

\---

 

 

He makes his decision at the summit.

The banter between Anise and himself is a much needed band-aid when he spots the commander make his way through the crowd towards them. He shouldn’t be surprised when they easily recognize Anise from beneath her glamour and he feels a strange sort of pride. It seems to slip through their bond because a moment later something akin to a unspoken question flits back through their connection. He doesn’t answer it.

He listens to their conversation with only half his attention, awaiting his chance.

“Have no fear. Your secret is safe with me.” The commander says with a polite smile, bending over in a bow.  “I’m afraid I need to speak with my allies. It’s been a pleasure, Countess.” They move to walk away, before turning to Canach. “I remember you from the party. I don’t think I caught your name though.”

Canach stares into those liquid gold eyes, wondering if it’s the right choice. The words from a year ago burn on his tongue, wanting to be said.

“Canach.” He says instead, dipping his head in acknowledgement. They smile in return, a mere shadow of what he saw at the party.

“Daud. I hope I’ll see you around.”

 

His heart throbs in the worst ways as he watches them leave, the rough touch of Anise’s glamoured hand in his barely enough to keep him grounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there’s any confusion though, Daud is a human male. 
> 
> apologies for any past/current tense mistakes i will have made :p  
> lostmylongbow.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there.” A slight blush colors their cheeks. “I missed you.”
> 
> “Some hello.” Canach responds drily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> instant regret + this fic was supposed to stay under a nice 7k what happened

She sends him to join with the pact. He’d be glad to be free from Anise, if it wasn’t outweighed by having to work so close to _them_.

Most days he only gathers intel for the Shining Blade, listening in on the Pact’s plans, or runs errands. It’s a mixed blessing to be away from Divinity’s Reach. Few recognize him, but those that do are quick to spread his past deeds around the camp. Apparently not quite everyone are so readily accepted into the Pact. He ignores snide glances of the more openly hostile, making good use of snark and bark. When he spreads rumours that he collected heads for fun the more mouthy soldiers back off, leaving him in peace.

Days bleeding into each other he awaits a chance to do something more interesting. When Caithe invites him on a reconnaissance mission he gladly accepts.

 

Of course, expecting the mission to go smoothly is merely wishful thinking.

They get separated from each other, Mordrem chasing him one way and his sister another. Killing off the ones chasing him is little trouble, but when they keep coming he decides to curl into a crevasse by some nearby rocks. The corpses still littering the ground he booby-traps with explosives should any curious Mordrem follow his scent. He settles down knowing someone will eventually come for them when the squad doesn’t turn up.

He is right. Someone does turn up.

 

It’s early morning when he wakes from a nap, disturbed by movement. Reaching for a grenade it takes him a moment longer than usual to notice it’s the commander leaning over one of his booby-trapped Mordrem corpses.

“Do not disturb that body.” He calls when they move to touch the damn thing. Have they no common sense? “Unless you wish to be vaporized into a fine mist, I advise you to step away.”

He notices their hand twitch towards the bow on their back before he steps out of the shadows. Face blooming into recognition they straighten and wave at him.

“Your work?” They step over the corpse and Canach feels like smacking his own face in frustration. “Don’t despair, I’ve got some experience with traps myself.”

Some days he really wonders how fate decided they were destined for each other.

“I’ll stop despairing when you stop tempting fate.” Much to his chagrin their response is a deep laugh. “Caithe is further ahead with the rest of the squad, we should get going.” Handing them some of his traps he urges them to rig leftover corpses.

“Let's go find her then.” Ever cheery they wink at him before wandering off.

 

Turns out they make quite a team when not fighting each other.

While he draws the attention of the mordrem hounds, letting them gnaw at his shield and acting as bait, the commander easily disposes of them two at a time through well aimed arrows. They still use a longbow, something that makes Canach grit his teeth in frustration, but he grudgingly accepts its usefulness when they rapidly dispatch a group of mordrem before they ever come within Canach’s reach. Even the damn bird is useful, baiting the little hounds into mines planted on Mordrem corpses.

When the chopper deposits them safe and sound back at Camp Resolve he tries to sneak away, uncomfortable with staying so long in the commander’s proximity. For some reason he’s certain that just being close to them he’ll trigger forgotten memories, but it doesn’t seem to ever happen. Instead he is intercepted halfway through his escape.

“Sorry, could you wait up a moment?” He hears the call from behind him. If anything he tries to walk faster, pretending he hasn’t heard anything. It proves futile. The other catches up with him easily, legs far longer than his own. “S’cuse me.”

“Apologies, I didn’t notice you lumbering behind me.” He finally turns around, the commander nearly running into him with how suddenly he stops. Instead of insulted at his words they seem amused.

“Worry not. It’s not terribly hard to catch up to someone of your stature.”

Did he just…?

The commander breaks into pearly laughter, grinning down at him. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I just wanted to thank you for helping me with the Mordrem.”

It shocks Canach how little he is bothered with the quip about his height. Uncomfortably aware that he is of the shorter lot even among his own kind, he’s had no trouble breaking the kneecaps of those teasing him for it. With the commander it just feels like good-natured teasing.

“You’re welcome?”

“I hope we get a chance to do some more missions together.” With a cheeky wink they disappear, blending into the crowd.

 

\---

 

Their paths don’t cross again for another mission. Occasionally he sees them wander into Camp Resolve. Some of those times they even make an effort to find him and have a chat. All while the tension grows and the world becomes less safe. Attacks by the Mordrem grow more insistent, until finally it grows too much for the gates to handle and Camp Resolve is overrun by Mordrem. The headaches set in the following day.

Despite his best efforts to run from his fate it seems that it refuses to take no for an answer.

 

\---

 

The others distrust him, being the only Sylvari. Yet the commander’s belief never budges. Canach suspects it has something to do with the soul bond working beneath the surface, yet despite it he is thankful. Keeping Mordremoth at bay is like swatting away flies when you’re not the only one with faith in yourself.

 

\---

 

He watches their little group settle down for the night. A shallow stream bubbles closeby, the occasional splashes drifting to their camp as the commander and Braham wash away sweat and dirt. Taimi chatters impatiently, eager to talk about her discoveries of Rata Novus. Marjory humors her while Kasmeer snoozes gently in her lap. It’s disgustingly domestic, so he amuses himself by pointedly cleaning his sword. Not that anyone notices.

 

The chatter is interrupted at the approaching footsteps, Taimi perking up as Braham comes into view first. He settles against his pack and promptly begins to snore, much to Taimi’s  disappointment. Canach watches Rox roll her eyes at the display, tugging on her tail that seems stuck under the Norns legs. The commander follows soon after, using a small towel to wipe the worst damp out of their hair. Canach’s thoughts go fuzzy when he notices the commander’s lack of a top, eyes zeroing in on dark ink that curls down their neck, over their shoulder and down their arm.

 

_‘Some things just require a more mercenary touch’_

 

Taimi ‘ooh’s excitedly, limping over to have a closer look. The commander stands awkwardly still, halfway bent down over their pack and a dry shirt in hand.

“I didn’t know you had a soulmate!” Taimi exclaims. She gestures for them to lean down and they do, slouching into a crouch so Taimi can run her fingers over the words.

Mild unease drifts through the bond. Sudden and unreasonable jealousy flares up within him and it takes more than he wants to admit to not just get up and wrestle Taimi away from _his_ soulmate.

He’s quick to stifle down the possessive flare when the commander glances up, certainly having felt the displeasure over the bond.

“Careful, Taimi.” Marjory murmurs with a chiding tone, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s not very pleasant when people who aren’t your soulmate touch the mark.”

The little Asura pulls her hand away quickly, stammering out an apology. The commander just laughs softly.

“It’s not that bad. It just makes it itch a bit.” They say and reach to scratch the ink, sending pleasant tingles to Canach’s own mark. He curls his lips in distaste, because _surely_ it’s worse than a itch, but no other discomforts pass through the bond. It should figure he’s unlucky enough that only Sylvari get the painful marks.

 

Rata Novus momentarily forgotten, Taimi hones in on the new discovery.

“So do you know who they are? Have you met them? What is it like to have a soulmate?” She fires off, halting when the commander’s laugh just deepens.

“Slow down there Taimi.” They shrug the shirt over their head, concealing the mark again. In a flash the spell is gone, leaving Canach blinking furiously as his mind clears. “No, I don’t know who they are. I haven’t met them yet, or at least I think I haven’t. Maybe I just forgot.” They say with a smile and wink, clearly meant as a joke. Canach’s heart clenches with guilt.

 

“Having a soulmate is like never being alone. There’s this connection in your mind that binds you together.” Kasmeer pipes up, apparently been woken up by the fuss. “It’s comforting to know there’s someone out there for you, no matter what.” She smiles at Marjory who responds in turn, stroking Kasmeer’s hair lovingly.

“Is it true only humans and norn have soulmates?” Taimi asks. Canach can see the commander open his mouth to answer, but he beats them to it.

“Actually, Sylvari get them too.” All eyes turn toward him and suddenly he feels his skin prickle up at the sudden attention. “It’s rare but there’s been a handful of Sylvari who awakened with a soulbond mark.”

“Really?” Kasmeer wonders and leans up on one elbow to look at him more easily. Way to put himself into the spotlight. “I thought it was a human-norn exclusive thing.” He shrugs at that, tightening his hand into a fist so he doesn’t accidentally reach for his engraving.

“Do you have a mark?” Taimi inquires, big clever eyes blinking up at him. He stays silent for a moment, uncomfortably aware of that the commander, much like everyone else, is staring at him.

“As if anyone would be so lucky to get me as their soulmate.” He finally drawls with a smirk. Rox groans, Kasmeer and Taimi both giggle but all he can focus on is the feel of Daud’s thoughts brush against his. It burns like fire, the kind which stirs deep within one's belly and licks its way up your throat. Their eyes meet his for a second before moving away, settling on the group once more.

 

\---

 

Somewhere during their trek to Tangled Depths he becomes acutely aware that the commander might’ve taken a shine to him.

It starts with small touches. Shoulders brushing, a hand on his back as they pass by.

He says nothing of it. Doesn’t want to _hope_. Instead he lets himself lean into the touches, sometimes, rarely, responding in kind. Nothing physical, he’s not as painfully obvious as the commander. Instead he tones down the bite in his words whenever he addresses them. Stands by their side each battle. Offers them gauze for their wounds. It’s enough. He can tell they’re pleased through the bond.

 

“Take care.” They tell him with a hand on his shoulder as they part ways.

“You could just come with us.” He responds, shaking the arm off his shoulder. It’s far too close to his mark. “The Pact can take care of itself.”

It earns him a wide smile, golden eyes glittering. “I’d hardly be much of a commander if I didn’t care for my people. Go. The others are getting away.” Then they leave, hurrying towards the wreckage off an airship that crashed ten minutes ago. Canach feels himself sigh before turning to follow their group.

 

The crush on his mind gets steadily worse as he traverses further into the depths of the jungle. A nagging voice tells him they’re coming ever closer to the dragon. Eventually the chatter of their allies become too much against the pounding headache, so he excuses himself with the pretense of scouting ahead. It proves to be worthwhile too, as he is able to once again drown out the call of Mordremoth as well as find a wounded Pact Lieutenant. At first glance the Lieutenant shies away from him as he approaches before realizing he isn’t one of the Mordrem.

“I need to speak with the commander.” She coughs out, breath rasping against her words.

“He’ll be here.” Canach promises.

 

True to his promise, under an hour later the commander wanders down the path looking dirty if not worse for wear.

“Canach!” They call, breaking into a sprint as they spot him. “Kasmeer said you needed a moment to yourself, is Mordremoth-” His mark gives a warm throb as they latch onto his arms.

“Calm down. I was just exploring, nothing to get your staff all bent out of shape over.”

They smile brilliantly at his snark, reaching up with one hand to cup his cheek. It barely connects before they snatch it away, face deepening into a beetroot red. Canach slowly raises an eyebrow. And people say Sylvari look funny with their colorful bark.

“Nevermind.” Clearing their throat, their smile turns sheepish. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Of course I am, don’t be a fool. There’s a Pact Lieutenant wishing to speak to you.” He gestures towards the hunched over figure that’s peering at them curiously. The commander smiles awkwardly at her, mumbling their thanks before walking off and crouching in front of the wounded soldier.

A shine indeed.

 

\---

 

“Logan?” They call frantically, digging to grab at the wet body inside the pod. “Can you hear me?” Stirring, the guardian convulses and coughs up dark sap.

“The others... Zojja…”

“Hold on, we’re getting you out.” Marjory drags Logan out of the commander’s grip. They sit frozen, staring at their hands covered with the liquid coating the insides of the pod. Canach doesn’t bother pretending he can’t see them shaking, instead he drops down in front of them and grabs their hands. He isn’t faring better himself. Mordremoth tears his defences away each passing second. They’re close.

“We need to go find the others. Marjory, take care of Thackeray.” He drags the commander up, steadying them as they stumble against him. With a bit of wriggling Canach manages to throw one of their arms over his shoulder for better support. “Logan is fine. We need to find Zojja and Trahearne.”

They nod, but he can feel their anxiety beat against him. He really can’t be dealing with all of this as well as Mordremoth bearing down on him.

“What if we’re too late. Logan is in bad enough shape, what if we’re too late for Trahearne and Zojja?” The hand looped around Canach’s shoulder clenches. Canach bites his tongue to refrain from snapping but it’s a near thing.

“Stop that. Rox and Rytlock have got it under control. You just have to get off your ass and help them.”

The commander chokes out a laugh.

“You’re terrible at this Canach.”

He doesn’t bother denying it.

 

\---

 

“I’m such a fucking piece of shit.” The commander grinds the heels of their palms against their eyes, slouching into themselves. “Why did I go for Logan first, I didn’t even consider Zojja. I should’ve known she would be worse off.”

“You couldn’t have known that.” He tries to comfort, gently pulling their palms away. Their eyes are watery, red rising up the edges. He wants to comfort them. Hold them, hide them. Canach settles for a hand on their shoulder, just above where he knows the ink curls down. Maybe it’s the physical comfort, maybe it’s the presence of their soulmate _(regardless if they know it)_. Most likely it’s both, but what has grown into a full body quiver slowly dies out. “Zojja is still alive, that’s all that matters.”

 

They nod and he lets go, straightening up. He offers a hand which they take gladly, pulling them to their feet. Canach can still see traces of self-blame and disgust in the way they hunch into themselves, but their eyes are fire and steel. When they speak it’s only with the faintest tremor.

“Time to find Trahearne.”

A shaky smile passes through the connection and he sends one tinted with comfort right back.

 

\---

 

He stays a respectful distance away from the two Pact leaders as the speak in hushed voices. He can’t hear what’s being said, but all he needs is the near frantic brush of the commanders thoughts against his. Torrents of despair and helpless fear wash over him, so he slots a hand against his shoulder and does what his soulmate has always done for him, covering the forest in a gentle blanket of calm. It takes more effort than he’d ever admit, forcing him to close his eyes in concentration. Mordremoth’s crush against his mind does little to help.

Even so it takes mere seconds until the fear washes away, drawing strength from his offered comfort. Caithe stands in front of him when he opens his eyes, looking at him with an expression that says it all.

“Take care of him, brother.” She murmurs softly, fingers dancing against the back of the hand still slotted against his shoulder. A knot too thick to speak past blocks his throat, so he settles for a nod. She smiles like she’s proud of him and despite all his hate for the firstborn he can’t squash the sudden gratitude to his sister.

 

\---

 

“Look at you.” The creature sneers, peering down at him with glowing eyes. “Such strength, yet bound by that pointless mark of man. Submit for me and I will remove those shackles.”

“I think I’ll pass.” He responds easily, unsheathing his sword. “I’ll bear these shackles willingly if the alternative is giving in to you.”

“Coward!” It shouts. “Do not forget who I am. I can taste your fear. These bonds are but a burden. Serve me and I shall return your freedom.”

“What you offer is no freedom.” Canach spits. “So you can take your preaching and shove it up your draconic behind.”

It roars in fury, throwing out a flurry of grenades before dashing towards him. He readies his shield and the grenades bounce off its surface but the sudden pressure of its sword forces his shield to the side.

He rolls with it, evading the follow-up swing.

The abomination makes to smash its own shield down on him before he can scramble up but stumbles when the commander dances around it dagger in hand. It connects with the creature’s calf, splattering dirty sap all along Daud’s arm. At least they’ve learned not to bring a longbow into a swordfight, though the dagger is only a minor improvement.

 

“Would it kill you to use a proper sword?” Canach shouts at them as he kicks off to stand on his own two feet again.

“I didn’t think to bring one.” They snap back and leap off the ground, climbing up the abomination’s back in a way that is both impressive and disturbing to the secondborn. “I’ll make sure to grab one the next time I’m facing a dragon threat.” Sinking their dagger into the flesh of its neck the commander manages to stab twice more before being thrown off. Knocking the air out of their lungs they land on their back a few paces away, moaning with pain. Taking advantage of the distraction Canach surges forward, sinking his sword into the rotten bark.

 

Mordremoth roars around them, in his head, pushing against him more viciously than ever before. It pounds at his mind until it drives him to his knees, weapons clattering to the ground has he is forced to grip his head to prevent it from exploding.

He doesn’t want to think about how easy it would be to give in, to stand up and sink his sword through the commander’s heart. The abomination laughs mockingly, only interrupted with its own roar of pain as the commander silences it with their dagger.

“Canach?!” He blinks through the haze in his head, eyes darting from the commander sprinting towards him to the abomination screeching as it holds a hand to it’s eyes. He can see sap leaking through the fingers. “Still with me?”

“It’s too much… can’t control myself…” He clenches his hands into fists, too aware that all he can see when he looks up is red. “Can’t trust myself.”

The commander reaches down to touch him, but instinct becomes too much and he lunges for them. He has them pinned down beneath him, gripping the muscles of their upper arms to hold them still. Teeth chafe against each other and he’s painfully aware that they’re bared.

“Canach!” In an attempt to push him off their hand connects to his shoulder, pressing at the mark through his armor.

It burns painfully, _punishingly_ , but it clears his mind enough to roll away.

“Kill it.” Canach kicks his shield towards them. “Take my shield and _finish it._ ”

 

\---

 

“Thank you for trusting my strength.”

They smile, sap and blood mixing on their skin, but it’s brilliant and full of strength.

“You’ve earned it.”

 

\---

 

Caladbolg whistles through the air before coming to a wet halt. The cave is filled with Mordremoth’s dying roar, echoing until eventually falling into silence, only broken by a clatter as the sword falls to the ground. The dragon is dead and the Sylvari are free.

Mordremoth is gone, freeing him from the crushing grip against his mind. After so long of fighting headache after headache he feels exhausted. When glancing at Caithe she seems equally relieved.

His peace of mind is disturbed by despair very much not his own. A storm sweeps through the forest, one so dark and heavy it brings down the trees in its wake. The commander stands in front of the husk that once was Trahearne. Marjory has her arms curled around their shoulders in a hug, speaking quietly into their hair. Both Rytlock and Braham keep their distance from the two humans. He feels out of place.

 

With leaden feet he turns around and leaves.

 

\---

 

His victory is short-lived. Mordremoth’s end brings him back onto Anise’s doorstep and she welcomes him like a lost dog, fussing over him in that condescending way of hers. When she finally briefs him he lets it all spill, the exhaustion forcing the floodgates open. In a terrifying way he’s come to trust her with his secrets.

 

“Look at that, my cactus flower.” She smiles and sets him down on her bed. He only stares hollowly at her in response. “It seems you couldn’t escape destiny after all.”

“Must you always try to sound so mysterious.” Canach sighs. Lose parts of armor clatter to the ground as he removes it before sinking down the bed onto the floor.

“Apologies, blossom.” Stroking the sharp spines on his head she peers down at him. “I’m merely pleased that you’ve found your place in this world.”

 

He snaps back. He always does. Something witty and clever which leaves the Countess smirking back at him.

But he doesn’t deny her words.

 

\---

 

Magic hums in the air. Bloodstone fen exudes danger, from the ley-lines filling the air to the white mantle milling about. He waits in the shadows of the colosseum, patience growing thin. Perhaps some of it translates through the bond because he doesn’t have to wait much longer before he can hear the rustle of a glider, following moment revealing the commander as they are dragged up the current. Skillfully they fold their glider to break free from the updraft before opening it up one last time, slowing their drop through the glider, feet finding the ground without a stumble.

“Show-off.” He grunts to alert the commander of his presence. Joy seeps through the connection when the commander spots him, rushing over.

“Canach!”

“Heard you were looking for me. Tough but well-spoken, medium build, _a bit cranky?_ You really know how to flatter-” He is interrupted when they lean down, catching his lips in a kiss.

Huh, that’s new.

 

The soul bond sings. He runs out of oxygen far faster than usual.

“Hello there.” The commander chimes when they let up, the slight blush coloring their cheeks overshadowed by a brilliant smile. “I missed you.”

“Some hello.” Canach responds drily. “You saw me just the other day.”

Smile turning a shade awkward, they duck their head to rest against his unmarked shoulder.

“Yeah, well. I couldn’t do this this in the lab.” They half-laugh. “And before that it’s been months. I’ve had enough of waiting.”

“Really? I heard the good commander is renowned for his patience.” He teases. Their breath ghosts against the cracks of his grown armor. It seems to wilt beneath their touch.

“Mmm.” Teeth worry against the edge of his jaw, traveling up to his ear. “You must’ve heard wrong.”

When they bite down he can’t deny the odd sensation. Sylvari teeth are different, grown to perfection. Human teeth on other hand have their dents and faults, left to grow at their own pace. Small differences he paid less attention to with the Countess, the commander now making him starkly aware of them.

They move back to claim his lips again. The soft skin is alien against his own much harsher texture. He can’t find any reason to complain about it.

 

“Here I thought you were saving yourself for your soulmate.” He leers between the rougher kisses. He doesn’t mind, obviously, but the commander doesn’t need to know that. A crooked smile plays on their lips.

“I have this nasty feeling I’m going to end up dead before I meet them.” they respond jokingly before resuming their path down his throat. One of Canach’s hands reach to grip the back of their neck, clenching against the soft strands at their nape. It seems to spur them on, flattening themselves against his body. “Though I’d ask the same about you.”

He lifts his gaze to meet the commanders head on.

“Back in Mordremoth’s mind, when you spoke to that abomination. I heard.” Their smile is unbearably soft, the kind that tells him they won't be hurt if he turns around and leaves. He doesn’t believe it for one second. “You have a soulmate, don’t you.”

 

It’s not a question.

 

Canach can’t stand the sincere expression on their face so he hooks a hand under their chin to bring the commander down, dragging them into another kiss. Their teeth click awkwardly and he can taste blood, but it does nothing but fuel his fire.

“I’ve stopped looking for them.” He tells them and silences any further protest with a biting kiss. Curiosity flashes through the connection but Canach ignores it, instead making the most of their time alone until he hears another glider in the distance and recognizes Marjory’s holler.

 

\---

 

He comes to miss them when he’s away. The mark aches for attention now that it's had a taste but he’s determined to finish his mission so he can wriggle out from beneath Anise’s thumb. Even so he’s unsure what to do afterwards. Part of him wants to stay with the commander, ensure their safety. It’s a foolish gesture. The commander doesn’t need him to defend them, something they’ve proven time after time again. Though he downplays it he is proud of their prowess.

 

Another part, the part that disregards the yearning of his heart tells him to go. Leave and get as far away from them as he can. Maybe then he could finally get rid of this attachment to the man. He knows he doesn’t need them, no matter how the bond tries to tells him otherwise. He lived over twenty years without them.

Still he misses the easy companionship. The snark, the impatient kisses. The comfort of fighting alongside each other and keeping them safe.

 

Like all battles between his heart and mind, the heart admits defeat.

 

\---

 

He traces the ugly webbing of scars on their arm, feeling the harsh dents caused by Minister Estelle’s binding spell. The commander shifts and he can feel displeasure drifting across the bond so he stops.

“I’ve had quite enough of abuse to that wound for one day.” They mutter, though turn and lean the less bruised part of their body against Canach.

It should be awkward considering he is a head shorter than the commander. Then again, a lot of things that should be awkward with them aren’t, so he rolls with it. Things like how his bristles cut the fragile skin of their lips whenever they kiss, making every single one of them taste like copper.

 

“Where will you go?” they finally break the silence. It’s painfully earnest. Canach shrugs, jostling the commanders head. An insult escapes beneath their breath.

“Where the wind takes me I suppose.” That earns him an elbow into his ribs. “Ouch, so violent.”

“Pull the other one, it’s got bells. Wax less poetry while you’re at it, it doesn’t suit you.” The commander grumbles, crossing their arms.

“Really? I recall you described me as rather well-spoken.”

“I clearly wasn’t in the right frame of mind.” Despite the words they lean back, reaching up to caress the side of his face. Canach lets his eyes drift shut, leaning into the touch.

“The invitation to Dragon’s Watch won't expire anytime soon, just so you know.” A final try to get him to change his mind. Canach shakes his head gently.

“Appreciated, Commander, but no.”

The conversation dies afterwards. Nothing but the breeze shaking through foliage interrupts the silence. He busies himself with stroking the unmarred arm, committing the warmth and softness of their skin to memory. Maybe he’s grown more sentimental over the years. He knows he will return eventually, can’t imagine going the rest of his life without the commander at his side. Regardless he has to try, a last attempt at a struggle before he gives in completely. His fate was decided before he even awakened, guiding him through the name on his shoulder. Any other time, any other place and he’d drown those thoughts in a heartbeat. Now, with the commander resting against him with and pure contentment drifting across the bond, he can only give in.

 

When the sun disappears behind the trees of Lake Doric’s horizon and Canach makes to leave, one hand grabs his to pull him back down.

“Stay with me for the night.” They ask and he crumbles.

“Of course.”

He’s gone come morning.

 

\---

 

Freedom is like a fresh breeze after years of servitude. He wanders, drinks, causes trouble. The Countess gives him a pouch of gold to do as he pleases with when she waves him goodbye. Though suspicious he accepts it, counting the coins as he wanders through Queensdale. It turns out to be enough to last him for a while as long as he doesn’t waste it.

By the time he’s reached Lion's Arch the money has doubled and he’s been accused of cheating at cards more times than he cares to remember.

 

Wherever he goes he keeps an ear out for the whereabouts of the commander. It irks him to no end how he can’t shake the worry. Like a lost puppy he’s captivated with whatever news that drift across Tyria, unable to fully let go after having had a taste.

Taimi keeps him updated on the bigger things, which he is thankful for. The little communicator has tremendous reach, only beginning to crackle when he wanders too far into Ascalon. Mostly though she leaves him to his own devices.

That’s not to say he doesn’t nearly go mad with frustration when she casually lets it slip that there’s a human god of war which has gone rogue, not to mention the two dragons beginning to awaken.

_“And you’re trying to fix this.”_

_“Well, me and the others of Dragon’s Watch.”_

_“Great, so, you and five other madmen. I’m sure that’ll go well.”_

She seems sufficiently chastised after that. Purely out of annoyance he travels all the way to to the Iron Marches, where nothing but static gets through the device. He doesn’t sulk. Sulking is for those who care and he’s not bothered about missing out on all the action. Not at all.

Eventually he gives up and gets bored with traveling. His arm aches to pick up a sword and he ends up in more fights than ever before, so he figures it’s high time to pack his bags and head towards trouble.

 

That’s how he finds himself upon one of Kiel’s shipping vessels towards the Crystal Desert. It’s not a pleasant trip, at least not until he gets caught as stowaway. They nearly dump him into the ocean before he manages to bullshit his way out of it. Apparently being the commander’s associate has some perks.

Hot air that blasts into his face after he steps out the cool airship is an acquired taste. Already beginning to regret his decision he tries to turn around, but the crew of the vessel refuse to let him back in so he finds his way to Amnoon and waits. It takes a week, but he entertains himself with Zalambur’s casino, infuriating both the customers and dealers as he keeps winning. By the time the commander wanders into the establishment he’s up 500 gold from where he started.

 

The first sign is the sudden warmth that passes through their bond. It surprises him enough that he doesn’t notice which number the roulette ball falls on, only that the croupier neatly rakes in his chips and deposits them in a little box. He could swear on the Pale Mother the thing is rigged.

The bond has been quiet the past months. Pain from the usual wounds trickle across as well as traces of emotion, but nothing strong enough to particularly grab his attention. Now the warmth that drifts across is one he’d recognize anywhere. He looks around, hating how his heart skips a beat when he notices the familiar figure navigate their way through the busy casino towards him.

“Enjoying your time off?”

“Freedom is a sweet drink, Commander. I've been busy quenching my thirst.”

They chuckle, a sound which sets shivers running up his spine. “I’m glad.” With a nudge they urge him to move over, freeing space for them to sit down. Falling into routine as if Canach never left.

It’s not a chair meant for two but he does it anyway, not even bothered when the commander steals a chip and places it onto the roulette board. When the wheel stops spinning and the chip is cleared away into the box the commander just gives him a guilty little shrug. He stares at them bemusedly.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” They ask.

“Perhaps.” Canach hums and gathers his chips. The commander follows him as he makes for a counter. The cashier dutifully exchanges them for gold, leaving him with a heavy pouch.

“Am I meant to take that as a no?” An elbow nudges his armor and he swats it away. It’s meant to be teasing, but he can feel uncertainty drift across the connection.

“Relax. While my freedom's been gratifying, it's also a little boring.” He turns to the commander, giving them a cheeky wink. “I have a feeling coming with you will be much more interesting.”

Their smile is positively radiant.

 

\---

 

Turns out Canach is right. Things _do_ get more interesting with the commander. It helps that only three days in the man has almost been murdered twice. Makes him wonder what could happen in a month.

He gets a glare when he tells the commander so.

“That’s an exaggeration. It hardly qualifies as murder.” They grumble, helping the raven in their lap preen sand from its feathers. Shrugging Canach lets them sulk.

“I’ll be saying _I told you so_ when you eventually end up dead.”

 

He doesn’t mean anything by it, Pale Tree knows most days he thinks the commander is invincible. Subject to harm, perhaps, but never anything lethal.

If only.

 

\---

 

He feels the first of it when fire flares across his arms. He doesn’t think anything of it then, used to the pain which drifts through the bond. The commander is engaged in battle, that’s all.

He begins worrying when the pain doesn’t stop, instead growing more potent.

 

It fully hits him mid-way to Skimshallow cove. He tumbles off his raptor, rolling in the sand before coming to a stop. Faintly he hears Braham call his name, but it all drowns against the flickering void in his head. A pain unlike anything he’s ever felt before licks fire into his mark. It’s enough to alert him that something is terribly wrong.

He fumbles and tears pieces of grown armor away. It should hurt, it’s part of him after all, but it’s nothing like the fire in his mark. His hand finally falls upon the name, fingers curving into the grooves desperately, reaching out. Pure terror comes crashing down and the forest is aflame.

 

A hand reaches out to pull him up but he shrugs it off violently and jumps onto his raptor, kicking his heels into its side so that it launches into a sprint with a yelp. His companions call out to him but he ignores them. With single-minded focus he rides.

 

\---

 

The cove is a mess of soot and ashes. When he kicks at the dirt it comes away red and wet. The rest of Dragon’s Watch thunder against the wooden walkway below that leads to the top, trying to catch up to him. Kasmeer makes it first, gasping to get her breath back.

“What in the Six has gotten into you?” She wheezes, hunching over in a very unladylike manner.

“What indeed.” He responds hollowly, turning his back to the scene because he can’t bear seeing it anymore. Perhaps if he ignores it just a little longer then reality won't hit so hard. The presence is gone, soul bond quiet in a way it has never been, not even when locked away. He feels absolutely nothing through the connection.

 

In the middle of the scorched ground lies a figure, burnt and bloody. The black shadow of a bird has nestled itself beside it, crying its sorrow.

“Oh, Gods…” She murmurs. He almost laughs at that, swallowing it down just before it makes it past his lips. Gods indeed. “Commander?”

“What’s going on?” The gravel voice of Rytlock demands behind them, pushing past Canach to get a better look. The Charr too stops when he spots the body, a guttural swallow choking up their throat.

Kasmeer tries approaching the unmoving figure, her whole body shaking as she nears. Brave, braver than Canach who can’t even take another step closer. Before she’s within touching-distance the raven shrieks, flapping its wings furiously. It takes flight, claws scratching at her face, forcing her to retreat.

“It’s afraid.” Braham mumbles from behind them. “Garm acted the same way when Eir died.”

“Protective little thing.” Canach says. It’s not meant to do anything other than fill the silence, but it seems to catch the bird’s attention. With a caw it dives towards him and he raises his arms to shield his face out of reflex, memories from their first meeting surfacing.

 

However instead of trying to scratch the eyes out of his face it settles on his shoulder, nudging him towards the body.

“Not a chance.” He hisses at it. Croaking miserably in response, it tucks its head beneath his chin. It’s awkward because of his armor but it manages, wedging itself between wood and bark.

For a moment he ignores it, until finally taking pity on it. He helps it wiggle out from beneath his chin, placing it back onto his shoulder.

 

The others watch as he kneels down beside the commander.

Their face is streaked with soot. Dried blood clump the singed strands of their hair together. Parts of their armor is completely burnt off, revealing skin dirtied by blood and ash. Their eyes are still open, but where they once were bright enough to glow now they only seem dull and empty. Tracks run down their cheeks, lines forming in the soot what could’ve only been a result of now dried tears. He breaks one of the lines with his thumb, coming away dusty.

The worst though, comes in form of a jagged cut slashed straight across their throat. Some of the edge is cauterized, burnt shut by Balthazar’s blade, but by the still growing pool beneath their neck he figures they drowned in their own blood. He nudges their lips open with a finger. More drips out the corner of their overflowing mouth. It’s a gruesome sight.

 

Reaching for their hand he grabs it and rests it against his forehead, choking on a hard lump in his throat. Their skin has gone cold, lifeless. All that remains is ashes of the forest, burnt down to its roots. The throb in his shoulder died down on his climb to the top, but now he wishes it desperately back. Anything except this hollow silence. Maybe he could fool himself into believing they could still be saved, if he wasn’t so painfully aware of the broken bond.

It hits him with startling clarity, those words said so long ago.

 

_“I have this nasty feeling I’m going to end up dead before I meet them.”_

 

“You were fucking right. Of course you were.” He says with a choked laugh. Too much of a coward to ever tell them and now they’re dead.

The others creep closer while both the raven and him are distracted, but he can hear the soft sounds of Kasmeer’s sorrow. She joins him, taking hold of the commander’s free hand. He wants to tell her off for intruding. Nothing makes it past his lips.

 

Time passes. The sun sets in the horizon.  He doesn’t know how long he stays there, only that his knees ache when Rytlock urges him up. The desert skies are turning burnt orange, signalling the incoming night. Some of the stars can already be seen twinkling through.

“Kiel’s airship is here and there’s nothing we can do for him now. Come on.” The Charr’s voice grates against his ears but Canach obeys nevertheless. There’s no point in resisting. Kasmeer reaches out before he can pass her by, flicking the leaves aside from his damaged armor. He stares solemnly at her while she reads the name carved into his shoulder, watching as her expression turns.

“Does it hurt?” She asks. Fear colors her voice, fear for her own bond.

“Unbearably.” He answers truthfully. Her breath hitches and she shakes. Before she can do something foolish like sweep him into a hug as an act of comfort he steps aside and walks away. On the airship stands Braham, gesturing for Canach to follow him up the walkway. Numbly he does so.

His mark throbs, but he writes it off as phantom pain. Leveling one last look at his soulmate, he boards the airship.

 

It throbs again. Not a phantom pain then.

 

Much like the fuses of his explosives igniting black powder the mark flares back to life.

He chokes. There’s nothing in his mouth but he chokes either way, a sensation of liquid filling his throat until he is coughing with desperation to get it out. A heavy thunk sends him to the ground, Braham no doubt attempting to be helpful. It fucking _hurts_ and he’s about to tell the brute so _(if he can get rid of the soup blocking his airways)_ when Kasmeer gasps.

_“Commander!”_

He can’t turn around fast enough.

 

Writhing in the dirt, limbs so very full of life once more. No longer resting on their back, Canach sees them struggle onto their knees with hands clutched around their neck. Globs of coagulated blood splatter onto the ground, dripping from their mouth.

 

Most prominent of all though is the sensation of the void disappearing, overtaken by a familiar presence.

 

\---

 

_Thank the Pale Tree they’re_

 

_alive_

 

\---

 

_“Canach.”_ They grasp for his hands as he falls down next to them. Tears run down their face and Canach has never seen them cry before, but it clears the soot from their eyes and it’s possibly the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Pulling them into a hug, he forces their hands away from their throat. Angry and pink, but healed, the scar is stands out ugly against their skin. He runs his own fingers over it. Never has he been so happy to see a fucking scar.

“Don’t you ever-” He chokes on his words, pressing his forehead against the commander, blinking the wetness from his eyes. They shake violently beneath him. “Fucking _ever_ do that again.”

Nervous laughter fills the air around him, part sob part manic giggle.

“Couldn’t keep me away even if you tried.” Terror and shock seeping through the bond, they hook a hand around Canach’s neck to hold him close.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t question it. He couldn't care less _how_ the commander just came back from the dead _(because they were very dead and he never wants to feel such loneliness again)_ , all he cares about is that his mark sings with warmth once more and his soulmate is safe. The outside world drowns against the forest rising from the ashes.

 

\---

 

“A spirit showed me the past, you know. To help me regain my purpose.”

 

Muscles clamping up, his hands clench around the airship railing. It’s been hours since the Cove, airship floating over the desert for a good while now. Far beneath them the ground turns dark, patches of boiling quicksand growing larger. The commander has let the silence between them grow, contemplating something as together they watched the Crystal Desert pass beneath them. Unable to stifle the leaden feeling of dread Canach lets him speak.

“It also showed me something else. Something I forgot a long time ago.” Canach feels their eyes burn on his skin but he can’t bring himself look up.

“Some words, perhaps? A sentence?” he inquires for show, though there’s no point hiding it now. A hand closes around the side of his face, cupping his cheek. Gently he is brought around, lifted by the grip. It’s too late to back down. He stares into their golden eyes, silently marveling at how luminous they appear.

 

“You should’ve told me.” Kindly, they say it. Like they understand his reasons for not doing just so. What was he expecting? Resentment?

“Forgive me, Commander, but I doubt anything could be that easy with the two of us.” He shakes his face out of their grip, instead offering them a grim smile.

“I beg to differ.” They persist.

 

Like Kasmeer did hours ago they brush leaves out the way, the hole he tore out of his grown armor revealing the frayed edges of his engraving. Wearily Canach follows the movement with his eyes. Their eyes light up at the sight of it.

Hesitating, they look up, seeking his permission. He doesn’t respond but the bond sings and they take it as consent. Fingers run along the edges of each letter, dipping just barely inside the dents.

It should hurt. He’s threatened to cut fingers off of countless curious hands enough times to know that it _hurts_.  Only it doesn’t. Instead it’s a summer breeze through a forest. Gentle and warm like the golden eyes smiling down at him. He’s overwhelmed by the sense of belonging.

“Pray tell why.” He asks and they mull over it, fingers skirting over the grooves. It’s soothing. He could imagine falling asleep to the feeling. Eventually their fingers travel from their name to the back of his neck, holding him still as they lean their forehead against his.

“Because despite what happened then, I ended up falling in love with you regardless of the mark.”

Years worth of weights lift from his shoulders. The leaden dread in his stomach dissolves.

“How unfortunate for you.” He hums, drowning any malice with tentative affection.

“You’re terrible at this.” They answer with a grin.

He doesn’t bother denying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might edit the ending one day, as i'm not quite pleased with it. For now though, thank you for making it to the end :')
> 
> apologies for any past/current tense mistakes i will have made :p  
> lostmylongbow.tumblr.com


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